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Had the word of his return reached Wiscombe Chase? It must have, if strangers could recognise him on the street. What would North’s reaction be when Gerry turned up to reclaim his home, after all this time?
And what would she think of it?
He turned his mind away from that question and ordered the new clothes sent on ahead of him. Then he turned his horse to the north and began the ride home.
Once he was clear of the city, he gave Satan his head and let the miles pass uncounted. This was how it should be, man and steed travelling light. When the beast tired, they stopped and slept rough, not bothering with an inn. When it rained, Gerry threw an oilcloth over his coat and let the water run off him in sheets. Later, the sun returned and dried them, filling his nostrils with the smell of steaming wool and horse.
Kincaid had been right. He would miss this. But the whole point in buying a commission had been to gain the money to save the house and secure his future. He’d succeeded in that some years past. After Vitoria, there had been more than enough money to clear his debts, fix the roof and have a tidy sum left to invest.
He could have gone home then. But he had not. Even after Boney was sent to Elba, he had dawdled. The little Frenchman’s escape had come as a relief, for it meant a few more months during which he could delay the inevitable.
Now that the last shot had been fired and Napoleon was off to St Helena, he was out of excuses. It was time to return to his first responsibility.
And there, on the horizon, was the stone marker that indicated the beginning of the Wiscombe family land. His land, he amended. There had been no family living when he had taken up the sword. If there had been anyone left, the cowardly boy he had been would have appealed to them for help and avoided the next seven years of his own life.
Gerry shrugged at the thought and the horse under him sensed his unease and gave a faint shift of his own.
He stroked the great black neck and they continued on the road that wound through the dense wood surrounding the house. The wild, untamed nature of the property was more beautiful than any formal garden. Beautiful, but useless. Dense woodland was bordered on one side by rills and streams too small to navigate by boat and on the other by granite tors and bogs that made coach travel impossible.
His life might have been easier had his ancestors settled in a place capable of sustaining crops, cattle or industry. The land around Wiscombe Chase was fit for nothing but hunting. Since he did not intend to ever take another life, animal or human, it might be better to sell the lot to a sportsman who could appreciate it.
But after all the blood he had shed to keep it, he could not bring himself to entertain the idea. Some men at his side had fought for king and country. Others hated the French tyrant more than they loved their own cause. Still others wanted money or glory.
He had fought for his birthright. This ten square miles of wood and moor was his own country to defend and rule. It generated not a penny of income. If he was honest, he did not even like the draughty and impractical manor that had drained away the Wiscombe fortune. But, by God, it was his, to the last rock.
As if to confirm the wisdom of his decision, he saw a shift in the leaves on the left side of the road. He reined in and warned Satan to be still. A twig cracked and he held his breath, waiting. The stag stepped into the road, watching him as intently as he watched it. The spread of the antlers was broader than he remembered and the muzzle had more grey in it. But the left shoulder had the same scrape from his father’s bullet, so very long ago.
‘Hello, old friend,’ he whispered.
The deer gave a single snort, then tossed his head and disappeared into the trees.
In response, Gerry’s heart leapt with joy at the rightness of being home. Though he’d fought against it since the day he’d left, he belonged here. He spurred the horse to clear the last stand of trees and the house came into sight.
It had been near to ruin when he’d left. But now the heavy brown stone was clean and the roof sported new grey slate. The windows sparkled bright in the growing dusk. And every last one of them was lit.
Perhaps they had filled the house to the rafters with friends to welcome him home. He could not help the ironic smile this idea brought. He’d had no friends at all when he’d left England. To the best of his knowledge, that had not changed in his absence.
It likely meant that he was interrupting someone else’s party. He felt the same unholy glee that sometimes took him when charging on to the battlefield. It had never been the carnage that attracted him. It was the clarity that came when one knew life might end at any moment. Other fears paled in comparison, especially the fear of one’s own mistakes. He had learned to act before he was acted upon. After years of being life’s pawn, he had become the force of chaos that acted upon others.
He smiled. If ever there was an opposing army deserving of chaotic upset, it was the North family.
He cantered the last half mile, coming to an easy stop at the front door. The footman who came forward to take the horse did not know him. But then, in ’08, he had not been able to afford a servant at the door, much less the livery that this boy wore.
His butler had no such problems with recognition. The door opened and the expression on the man’s normally impassive face changed to surprise. ‘Master Gerald?’ Those words were smothered with a quick clearing of the throat and ‘Begging your pardon, Captain Wiscombe.’ But underneath the reserve, he was near to grinning, and so proud of his master that he looked ready to pop his waistcoat buttons.
Gerry had no reason for reserve with the man who had comforted him on the night his father had died. ‘Aston.’ He reached forward and offered a brief, manly embrace, clasping the fellow’s shoulder and patting him once on the back. ‘It is good to be home.’
‘And to have you home as well, sir. We have followed your exploits in the newspapers. It was very exciting.’
So they had heard of him here. Of course they had. Who had not? All the same, he was glad to have worn his uniform so that he might reinforce the image of returned war hero. Even after days in the saddle, the short jacket and shiny boots were more than a little impressive. And the sword at his side was proof that he was no idle fop in feathers and braid.
Aston looked past him. ‘Are you unaccompanied? Where is the luggage?’
‘Arriving later. I had it sent, direct from London.’ He smiled at the old servant. ‘I did not wish to wait for it.’
The man nodded back, taking his haste for a compliment. ‘We are all glad that you did not.’
Was that true above stairs as well as below? He sincerely doubted it. ‘Where is she?’ he said softly, looking past the butler. ‘Not waiting at the door for my return, I see.’
‘Come into the house, Captain.’ The man was still grinning over the new rank. ‘While you refresh yourself, I will find Mrs Wiscombe.’
‘Aston? Who was at the door, just now?’
It seemed the summons was not necessary. Lillian was standing on the main staircase. She looked as beautiful as he remembered and as enigmatic. He felt the same tightening in his throat that had come upon him the day they’d met. This time, he fought against it. While it might be fashionable to moon over another man’s wife, it did not do to be so affected by one’s own.
He straightened to parade-perfect attention, then looked up at her. ‘No one in particular. Merely your husband, madam.’
Her head snapped up to see him. Her face shuttled through a half-dozen expressions, trying to settle on the one that could both express her emotions and welcome him properly. He was pretty sure that none of what he saw resembled gratitude or joy. But before any of it could truly register, she gave up and her eyes rolled back as her knees began to fold under her.
‘Bugger.’ He lunged forward, putting his battlefield reflexes to good use, and caught her before she could reach the ground. The woman in his arms was heavier than she’d appeared at the altar. Hardly a surprise. He had changed, as well. But she was not too heavy. Had he found her in Portugal, he’d have described her to his mates as a ‘tidy armful’.
‘The bench, Captain.’ The butler gestured to a place beside the stairs.
‘The sitting room,’ Gerry corrected.
‘I will send for madam’s maid with the hartshorn.’
‘Nonsense,’ Gerry announced, carrying his wife through the open sitting-room doors to a divan by the fire. ‘She just needs to get the blood back to her head.’ He settled Lillian on the sofa and sat at the opposite end, taking her feet into his lap to elevate them.
The feel of her dainty slippers against his thighs did more to redirect his blood flow than hers. He snatched a pillow from behind him and slipped it beneath them to give her more height and him a chance to regain his sanity.
Her eyelids fluttered, the long lashes revealing flashes of eyes as soft and brown as a doe’s. It must have been God’s own joke to give such an innocent face to a woman like Lillian North.
He smiled to hide his thoughts. ‘There. See? It is working already. Fetch her a ratafia, or some other restorative.’ Damn it all, he could use a stiff brandy himself. But he needed a clear head if he was to stand against the Norths, so he asked for nothing.
His wife was fully awake now. When she realised her position, she hurriedly pulled up her feet and righted herself, swaying slightly on the cushion beside him as she tried to regain her poise.
‘Easy,’ he cautioned. ‘Do not rush or you will become dizzy again.’
‘You startled me,’ she said, rubbing her temple as if her head ached. More likely, it was to shield her face so she did not have to look him in the eye.
So she was startled. How unfortunate. Even though she had not expected to see him again after their wedding breakfast, she must have heard of him in these past years. It had probably vexed her and her family to find him so stubbornly hard to kill.
The butler signalled the footman, who stepped forward with a glass. Gerry pressed it into her hand.
She drank deeply, as though desperate for anything that gave her an excuse not to talk.
‘So it shocked you to unconsciousness to see me again,’ he prompted, enjoying her discomfort.
‘I was aware that you had returned to England. But if you had notified us of your impending arrival, the house might have been prepared for you.’ She had the nerve to sound annoyed with him.
He smiled all the wider. ‘In my time away, I’ve learned to value the element of surprise.’
‘I must tell the servants to air out your room.’ She set aside her glass and made to stand up.
‘No need.’ He grinned at her and took her hand, pulling her none too gently back to the seat next to him. ‘They saw my arrival and are most likely doing so without your instruction. I am sure they would not expect you to leave my side so soon after our reunion. We have been apart for ages. We have much to discuss.’
She looked so miserable at the thought of their impending talk that he almost pitied her. Then he remembered that she had earned any misery a hundredfold for the way she had treated him.
Before they could begin, they were interrupted by voices in the hallway. A man and boy were coming towards the sitting room in animated conversation about the quality of the trout they had caught for tonight’s dinner.
In truth, it was the younger one that did most of the talking. The man with him answered in annoyed monosyllables before shouting, ‘Aston! What would it take for a man to get a drink before dinner? And what the devil is all the ruckus about? The rest of the party is not yet back from their hunt, but servants are running around as if the house is on fire.’
Lillian’s eyes widened and she looked ready to call out a warning.
Gerry laid a hand on her arm to silence her. Then he spoke in a voice that carried easily to the hall. ‘You have but to ask the lord of the manor, Ronald North. Or have you been playing that role yourself, in my absence?’ He’d meant it to sound joking, but it came out as an accusation. Gerry softened the words with his most innocuous smile, as his wife’s brother appeared suddenly in the doorway and braced a hand against the frame as if to steady himself.
‘Wiscombe.’ Though his voice had been clear and jovial a moment before, now Ronald seemed winded. He looked even more shocked than his sister had been.
Gerry took care to hide the malice he felt behind a wide-eyed, innocent look. ‘What a surprise to come home and find you still in my house.’
‘Surprise?’ The man stammered over the word, still trying to decide what his reaction should be.
‘Well, not really,’ Gerry added, his grin broadening. ‘Of course I expected to find you here. I gave you permission to live here in my absence. But there appears to be a house party in residence. Is it to honour my return? You must have heard of my homecoming and gathered my friends to welcome me.’
‘Of course.’ Ronald leapt for the lifeline he’d been offered, clinging to it for all he was worth. ‘When we heard that you had survived Waterloo…’ He gave a capacious wave of his hand to encompass the frenzied celebration that his success had caused. From one who had no right to set the comings and goings of the household it was more than a little presumptuous.
‘It was a dashed piece of good luck that I am here at all,’ Gerry answered him, with a pleased nod. ‘I’ve been within ames ace of coming home in a box so many times over the years that I quite lost count.’
‘How did you manage to survive?’ By his tone, Ronald North was annoyed that he had done so.
Gerry shrugged. ‘I suspect it was the prayers of my lovely wife that did it. There always seemed to be an angel who could grab me by the collar and pull me back from the brink.’ He gave a deliberately expansive wave of his hand and jostled the glass Lillian had been holding, sending a splash of her drink on to the rug.
‘I suspect so.’ Ronald was staring at him intently as if wondering whether he might still be the lucky idiot they wanted him to be. Gerry smiled back, doing his best to look harmless. Let him think what he liked. Better yet, let him think what Gerry meant him to.
‘But Waterloo is several months passed,’ Gerry continued. ‘Do not say you have been rejoicing all this time without me. Judging by the red in your nose, the cellar must be quite empty by now.’ The same years that had toughened Gerry had softened his wife’s brother. The chestnut hair he shared with his sister had lost its lustre. His waist had thickened and his face was bloated from over-indulgence. In school, Ronald had been a handsome fellow with an easy manner and enough blunt in his pocket to ensure his popularity. But now it was hard to see his brother-in-law as anything other than the dissolute wastrel he had been even then.
‘You need not fear that the house is dry,’ Ronald said, matching his tone to Gerald’s. ‘Your cellar is excellent, Wiscombe. I know, for I stocked it myself. And the guests that are here for your arrival?’ He gave another flourish of his hand. ‘The cream of London society, dear boy. The very pinnacle.’
‘The pinnacle? Then they are likely strangers to me.’ He’d been a young nobody when he’d left for Portugal, well beneath the notice of the ton. It had flattered him that Ronald North might think him a fit match for his beautiful sister. He had been a fool. He gave Ronald another empty-headed smile to prove nothing had changed. ‘But I am sure we will get on well. The chaps in my regiment said as long as I was paying for the wine I was very good company.’
He felt his wife tense next to him as she recognised the sarcasm that her brother had missed. Even at their first meeting, she had been better at reading him than either of the other Norths. It was a shame that her character was not equal to her intelligence.
‘You will meet the guests over dinner,’ Ronald said, smiling back. Apparently, he was also oblivious to the fact that it was not his place to be issuing such assurances to the man who owned the house.
‘I must change the seating at the table,’ Lily added, trying to escape him again.
Gerry pulled her down again. ‘Aston will have told the housekeeper by now. Mrs Fitz is quite capable of rearranging a few chairs.’ He gave her a smile that would have terrified her, had she known him better.
Perhaps she did know him. He felt another tremor in the muslin-draped leg resting against his. He dropped a hand on to her twitching knee in an overly familiar gesture of comfort and she stilled. But it was not a sign of calm so much as the terrified immobility of a rabbit before a hawk.
For now, he ignored her and her brother as well, staring towards the hall. ‘Never mind them. There is but one person here I truly wish to meet.’ He raised his finger to point towards the shadow hovering in the doorway behind Ronald North. ‘Come forth. Let me get a look at you.’
The boy stepped forward from around Ronald’s legs and walked into the room. He looked at Gerry with none of the nervous suspicion of the two adults in the room. But what reason would he have to fear this stranger? Especially since he had been eavesdropping on the conversation and must be aware who he was about to meet.
Gerry saw the lightning-fast glance that passed between the siblings as the boy stepped forward and they sought the words to cover this situation in a single shared look.
Once again he had the element of surprise. He pressed his advantage and sprang the ambush before they could speak. ‘As if I could not discover with my own eyes who this must be. Come forward, boy. Meet your father, returned from the wars.’
Chapter Three
Lily was going to faint again. She could see the black dots gathering before her eyes as Stewart stepped forward towards Captain Wiscombe’s outstretched hand. Now, of all times, she must not lose her senses. The dizziness came from holding one’s breath and denying oneself of air. It was a bad habit of hers and she must learn to break it if she did not want to appear frail and unworthy to her heroic spouse. She forced herself to take the breath that would clear her head. The resulting gasp was loud enough to be heard by the entire room.
Stewart started like a rabbit. But Captain Wiscombe ignored it, even though he must have felt the couch shake with her quaking knees.
She had nothing to fear in this meeting, or so she’d been telling herself for most of the past seven years. Before he had left her, Mr Wiscombe had been kindness itself. He had been gentle with her, considerate of her feelings and almost as frightened of the idea of marriage to her as she’d been of his chances in the army. The Gerald Wiscombe she remembered had been more likely to be harmed than to cause harm to another. She would explain to Gerald what had happened. He would understand and arrange a quiet separation.
But it was foolish to think of the man beside her as the same person who had left. He had not just been transformed by experience. He had been transmuted into another being. There was nothing left of the pudgy, scholarly boy who had stammered out a proposal to her. The soft brown hair had burned blond in sunlight and wind had given it a casual wave. In contrast, the skin of his face had darkened and the features had sharpened to a hawk nose and cleft chin. The grey eyes set beneath his furrowed brow were bright and as hard as flint.
He was still wearing the dashing red coat of a dragoon, with gold at shoulder and sleeve. And somewhere, there had to be a sword. By the resolute look on this man’s face, it had seen good use. If he decided to punish those who had wronged him…
‘Stewart, isn’t it?’ His words stopped her breath again. He knew her son’s name without being told. ‘That was my father’s name, as well.’ He favoured the boy with the same harmless smile he had used on Ronald. But there was an ironic note in the statement that was hidden so deeply she could not be sure that it existed outside her imagination.
Stewart swallowed nervously. Then he smiled back and nodded.
Now the captain was touching her boy, taking him by the shoulders and turning him side to side to give him a thorough examination. She tensed, waiting for his reaction. ‘You look very much like your mother.’
Was that meant to be ironic, as well? Or was it only she who noticed the way it focused attention on the lack of similarity between the boy and the Wiscombe family?
Why was he, of all people, not surprised to see this child? While the rest of the world might think it quite normal that she had a son, she must now face the one man in the world who would have questions.
And yet, he was not asking them. He was pretending to be simple and pleasant Gerald Wiscombe, and behaving as if he had expected this meeting all along. He had known the name of her boy because someone had told him. But who? How much had he been told? And how much of what he thought he knew was the actual truth of the situation?
Now he was questioning the boy in languages and receiving the sort of indifferent responses one could expect from a very young child who enjoyed the countryside more than the classroom.
When he had tried and failed to answer yet another simple question put to him in Latin, Stewart’s limited patience evaporated. ‘I am much better at mathematics than at Latin. Mama says that you are, too. Would you like to hear me do my sums?’
For the first time since he’d arrived, Captain Wiscombe’s composure failed him. He might have known of Stewart’s existence. But clearly he had not prepared himself to face a living, breathing child who was eager to give him the hero’s welcome he deserved. His overly bright smile disappeared, as did the bitterness it hid. Stripped of his armour, she caught a glimpse of the awkward boy who had proposed to her, trapped in a social situation he was ill-equipped to manage.
Then the facade returned and he clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘Your sums. Well. Another time, perhaps. Now run along back to the schoolroom and leave the adults to their talk. I am sure you have a nurse or a governess about who is supposed to give you your dinner.’
Stewart hesitated, staring at the captain with a hunger that could not be filled by his dinner tray. But Wiscombe saw none of it, or at least pretended he did not. Now that he’d made his acknowledgement, his interest in the child had disappeared as quickly as it had arisen.
Her son shot a hopeful look in her direction, as if pleading on her part might earn him a reprieve.
She gave him a single warning shake of her head and a slight tilt of her chin towards the stairs. Captain Wiscombe was right. Until they had spoken in private, Stewart was better off taking tea in the nursery.
Once the boy was gone, her husband turned his attention to Ronald. ‘I expect you have somewhere to be, as well.’
‘Not really,’ her brother replied with a bland smile. Now that he’d had time to recover from the shock of seeing Wiscombe, her brother’s sangfroid had returned.
‘Might I suggest you find somewhere?’ Her husband was smiling, as well. But there was a glint in his eyes that promised mayhem if his orders were not obeyed immediately. Then he softened to harmlessness again and threw an arm around her, hauling her into his lap. ‘After seven years away, it is not unreasonable that I wish to be alone with my wife.’
The sudden feeling of his arms tightening under her breasts and the rock-hard thighs beneath her bottom sucked the wind from her lungs and she was seeing spots again. Breathe, she reminded herself. Just breathe.
When she’d mastered her panic, she found her foolish brother was smiling in agreement as if he expected Captain Wiscombe was seeking immediate privacy so he might mount his wife in a common room. Could he not see that the gullible young man they’d roped into this union had returned as a dreadnought?